Queen Regina's Lace
by miladylen
Summary: Missing Year. Robin finds himself quite captivated by the stunning queen. (This was inspired by Regina's absolutely gorgeous dark purple dress in 5x12)
They'd returned some hours after supper, just as the moon was reaching its high tide and the castle's residents were seeking the solace of their featherbeds (or their corner of the floor for those unfortunate few). Robin bid his men _goodnight_ and headed down a less-traveled corridor, basket in hand.

The populace was on high alert after the Wicked Witch's last simian attack and the council had come to a decision at their latest meeting that anyone without the gift of magic or wielding a weapon should be given a vial of poppy dust as protection. The Queen had been roped, by Snow White, he's sure, into grinding poppies which were to be distributed in a few days' time. Robin, along with the Merry Men and a few guards, had volunteered to venture past the castle walls (and its protective spells) in search of the plant.

And now here is he on his way to the Queen's chambers to deliver a basketful, as no one else was particularly inclined to partake—though they'd gladly look on—in an angry confrontation with the former Evil Queen.

Robin arrives in front of her door, and he doesn't question how easily he'd found her chambers, how he'd memorized this route, without meaning to, after countless patrols to ensure her safety—though he knows she'd scoff at this, stating for the umpteenth time that she's perfectly capable of taking care of herself. He goes to knock, fully aware that she hates to be disturbed, but also knowing she'd rather not wait a minute longer than necessary for the carmine blossoms.

He hears the clacking of heels, but nothing prepares him for the sight welcoming him on the other side of the door. He's used to the Queen's mad outfits by now—velvets and laces, nylons and leathers—but this attire he finds himself enthralled by (more than usual).

The silk dress is a deep purple color—eggplant or damson—with terribly long bell sleeves. Droplets of sparkling beads adorn the ebony corset, as well as the sleeves and the low neckline, with just a hint of lace covering her bust. And yet, it is incredibly simple for the Queen's tastes, not as puffy or paired with a ridiculously high jewelled collar.

Her hair is down, curls flowing, gently resting on her hips. She looks unguarded, without her ever-present scowl, not peaceful—never peaceful—but… _calm_.

He's staring. He's always staring at her these days, it seems. But he's never seen her quite like _this_. No, that's a lie. He _has_ seen her like this before, he realizes—whenever she's in his son's company. His boy is the only one able to draw a smile—however shy—from the Queen.

It appears that has now changed because here are her majesty's lips slightly turning up in a—dare he believe it—utterly _flirtatious_ smile. And she's looking at him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes as if she's just caught him doing something he shouldn't. And she has, because it's been moments since she's answered the door and he's yet to say a single word.

"Ummm…here are the poppies you requested," he barely manages to stutter.

She's still smirking at him, teasing him for his obvious gaping, when she reaches for the basket, her hands coming in contact with his own. Her fingers are on top of his, resting for a lingering breath, before she's retrieving them ever so slowly, her nails trailing—almost stroking—his fingers until she's grasped the basket and his hands are left standing between them, at an odd angle, as if reaching for something taken away too soon.

Regina holds the flowers against her waist and waits for Robin to say more. So does he, no doubt waiting for her to utter an elusive _thank you_. But she cannot resist refusing his request, continuing this unspoken game between them.

With a defeated sigh, but an amused look in his eyes, Robin mumbles a _goodnight, Your Majesty_ , thus losing the battle.

"It's Regina," she mutters, as he's about to turn away and go back to his quarters, surprising both him and herself.

"Goodnight, Regina," he whispers, eyes wide and beaming, much too affectionately.

"Goodnight, _thief_."

"It's Robin."

"I know," she replies and he chuckles because of course her majesty— _Regina_ —wouldn't drop all her defenses, countless masks and veils, all at once. But Robin isn't one to prod or pressure, so he'll take what he can get and be forever grateful. He bows before her—after all she can't be the only one allowed a little harmless mocking—and proceeds to return to his room, grinning all the way, not even slightly irritated at getting lost more times than is reasonable.


End file.
